


sansa baby

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (might be more ‘m’ than ‘e’ but it goes down regardless okay), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Co-workers, F/M, Fantasizing, Holidays, Humor, Jon Snow Has No Chill, Lists, Office Party, Secret Crush, Sexual Content, and that’s what christmas is all about, holiday smut, ya boy is equal parts thirsty and in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 00:57:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16943982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Ever since Sansa Stark came to work at Baratheon, Inc., Jon Snow has had to start writing two lists: one to keep his professional duties organized, and the other to keep his less-than-professional notions about his fellow assistant under wraps.But, in preparation for the holiday party, those notions are *un*wrapped as quickly as gifts on Christmas morning...(title inspired by “santa baby,” by eartha kitt)





	sansa baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amymel86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/gifts), [sansaswildlinglover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansaswildlinglover/gifts), [vivilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/gifts), [ValofWinterfell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValofWinterfell/gifts), [AliceInNeverNeverLand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInNeverNeverLand/gifts), [Melissa_Alexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melissa_Alexander/gifts).



> a/n: -another fic for amy bc it’s yet another one of her ideas that inspired me, fic witch that she is. (i know she envisioned the story much differently than i’ve written it here; i basically piggybacked off her idea that jon keeps a list of all his dirty thoughts about sansa, and then took it in another direction)
> 
> -for jen bc she prompted amy with the title ‘the naughty list,’ which i only changed bc i -had- to write a holiday jonsa called ‘sansa baby’ okay it’s a COMPULSION 
> 
> -for vivi, who updates like a gd boss and makes every day feel like xmas, so i think she’s more than earned a holiday smut dedication 
> 
> -for fride, who i’m pretty sure is the biggest sweetheart in the world like she might actually be irl sansa stark
> 
> -for mere, bc she Deserves This
> 
> -and for melissa, who spent this entire shit year validating me at every turn
> 
> (ps jon’s lists switch between first- and second-person bc he’s living in a state of constant sexual crisis, okay. also bc i did it on accident and it sounded weird when i tried to fix it)
> 
> anyway, i might have spent more time reformatting this fic for ao3 than i did writing it. so many italics... so many strikethroughs... so much jon snow losing his mind over sansa... murry chribmus to us all

_**To-do:** _

  * _Staff newsletter. Incl. holiday party details._
  * _Re-schedule meeting w/ M. Raydar (Tues. next). *Find someone willing & able to emotionally prepare Stannis beforehand. Not me. Maybe Davos (?) Probably Sansa. NOT Melisandre, unless the rest of the office wants to hear unsavory sounds coming from the conference room again._
  * _Call D. Seaworth abt something I don’t understand. Pretend to know what I’m talking abt. Take antacid in a hapless attempt to avoid the unavoidable stress heartburn._
  * _Read the 36 unread emails in my inbox._
  * ~~_Pick up Stannis’ dry cleaning._~~
  * _Ask Sansa to pick up Stannis’ dry cleaning. Last time you did it, Ghost ate his pants & you had to replace them. Is that really an experience you want to have again? No, stupid. Ask Sansa to do it. Sansa’s brilliant._



**_NOT to-do:_ **

  * _Wax poetic abt Sansa in a list she could very well see. ‘Brilliant’ is easily translatable to ‘I want to bend you over the photocopier.’_
  * _Lose 15min of your lunch break bc you’re too busy thinking abt bending Sansa over the photocopier._
  * _‘Lose’? Who am I kidding. That was the most productive I’ve been all day._



In actuality, Jon doesn’t usually manage to be at all productive when he fantasizes about Sansa Stark in the middle of the work day. (Imagine that — getting behind on your duties because you spend all day immersed in explicit sexual fantasies about your coworker. Unbelievable.)

(But then… not all that unbelievable at all, really.)

It’s been just shy of two years since Sansa had started working under him at Baratheon, Inc., and just shy of one year, eleven months since Jon had started ardently wishing he could get her under him in other ways.

He’s rather sure he hasn’t done a lick of work the entire time.

That’s where the list had come in. Working for Stannis Baratheon necessitated lists, and working for anyone alongside Sansa, apparently, necessitated a similar yet wholly _dissimilar_ mode of compartmentalizing. Jon couldn’t think straight around her, in her pencil skirts and fitted jackets and one or two or three pairs of _really_ fantastic trousers that must contain some inherent sexual magnetism, because every time she wears them Jon’s eyes zero in on her arse as if that’s all his eyes were meant to do.

Which, to be fair, could very well be the case. It’s also why he finally started bringing his glasses along to work, just to make sure he could get the best possible look at her. Incidentally, he’s found that seeing properly renders his end-of-the-day headache nonexistent.

Sansa just makes his life so much _better_ , you see.

But worse, also. _Tortuous._ Spending time with her day-in, day-out, has turned Jon Snow from a semi-respectable working professional into a panting, drooling, one-track-mind complete pervert.

He can’t stop thinking about fucking her. In all sorts of positions, in all sorts of interesting places that are actually quite boring places — an empty office, the kitchenette, the copy room, _et cetera_ — rendered interesting only because of the things Jon’s imagined doing to Sansa therein.

Hence the list. He still can’t stop thinking about fucking her but, since he can’t very well just have his wicked way with her, getting it on paper and out of his head for a moment helps to alleviate the stress.

Theon calls it ‘The Naughty List’ — _“Get in the holiday spirit, mate”_ — but Jon refuses. It makes him feel dirty, and not in the good, satisfied, _I’ve-just-fucked-Sansa-Stark_ sort of way. He doesn’t even know what that sort of way would feel like (more’s the pity), as he’s not so much as suggested to Sansa that he fancies her.

Theon reckons it’s obvious enough, but… Well, fuck Theon.

“Are you making another list?” Sansa asks now, from her side of their perpendicular desks.

Sheepishly, Jon holds up his notebook (at the appropriate page, not the one about how he wants to do things to her on top of the photocopier, which is scribbled on the next).

Sansa _tsk_ s at him. “Don’t be embarrassed, Jon. You should see my day planner.”

“I have seen your day planner,” Jon reminds her. He drops the pad back to his desk. “It’s immaculate.”

She smiles, then pops open her lipstick to reapply it. Jon freezes on his way to read those thirty-six unread emails, hand poised above his mouse, and instead tracks the progression of bubblegum pink across her mouth. He swallows, curses himself, and jots another note to his list while Sansa’s blotting her handiwork with a tissue:

**_NOT to-do:_ **

  * _Think abt Sansa’s lipstick on me. ~~Pink’s not really my color.~~_
  * _She could wear bloody fuschia & I’d still want it on my cock, if I didn’t kiss it off her first._



Of course, he thinks about it, anyway, and never does get around to those emails.

It’s fine, though. Everything’s fine.

 

* * *

 

_**To-do:** _

  * _Something. ANYTHING._



_**NOT to-do:** _

  * _Imagine Sansa giving me a striptease to xmas music._



Easier said than done. Sansa’s got a holiday playlist miles long, and she tunes into it all morning at the office, until things get too busy to indulge in such creature comforts. She sings along, too.

It’s really too early for Jon to be this turned on. Has Christmas music always been this sexually charged? he wonders, aghast. Is _nothing sacred_?

Scratch that, Jon thinks, when Sansa winks at him during an impressive imitation of Eartha Kitt. Nothing’s sacred. _Or I’m just a heretic, maybe, but you know what, I’m fine with that._

“What’s your favorite Christmas song?” Sansa wants to know, abandoning her singalong to talk to him. Jon doesn’t know why she’d do such a thing; he’s an idiot, especially when he’s hiding a semi under his desk.

“Uh… this one.”

It’s not even true, but at the moment he’s trying to will his cock down, which isn’t going to work anyway because it’s early enough that the perfume Sansa spritzed on before work is still fresh, and he can’t think about anything but for the way she smells. (It’s fucking _vanilla_ , and now Jon’s thinking about what she tastes like, too.)

“Really?” Sansa leans back in her chair, lifting an eyebrow as she goes. She’s got her work done for the morning — responsible, unaffected-by-an-intense-sexual-attraction woman that she is — so she has time to take the piss. “A bold choice, seeing as you’re mates with Theon. I can’t imagine he’d let you live this one down. When I told him that ABBA’s my go-to workout playlist, he called me ‘Your Highness, the Dancing Queen’ for a month.”

“I prefer ‘Mamma Mia.’”

He certainly relates to the urgent _‘here I go again’_ nature of the song, though he’s never been cheated by Sansa. He has, however, been duped by his own desperately hopeful and unforgivably naive belief that he’ll get over her, surely, somehow, eventually.

 _Ha!_ It was never going to happen.

“It’s ‘Fernando’ for me,” Sansa confesses. “But you see my point.”

Now he’s trying not to imagine Sansa giving him a striptease to ABBA’s greatest hits. Good. Wonderful. Smashing.

“I do,” he concedes. He rubs at his nose, a nervous tic, and looks at her left earlobe when he says, “This song, it’s not really my favorite or anything, but I, y’know, I like it when you sing it, so…”

He trails off, useless. Just like his brain whenever it’s meant to be working while she’s in his line of sight.

Honestly, you’d think he’d be used to it by now.

Jon’s self-deprecation is forgotten, though, when Sansa blushes a pink so enticing he wishes for nothing more than to track its progression across every inch of her skin. How far does it reach past the neckline of her demure, very practical dress (that still makes him want to stick his head beneath the skirt and just… _go to town_ on her)?

He’d very much like to find out. He can’t, but let the record show that he wants it, bad.

“Thank you, Jon,” Sansa says to his spoken, actually-appropriate compliment. “That’s sweet of you to say.”

It’s a good thing Sansa can’t read his mind, else she’d think of several different — more colorful, more offensive and deservedly so — words to call him. That would probably just turn him on more, Jon assumes and gives up on himself as a lost, eternally horny cause.

He smiles at Sansa, though — a goofy, sappy smile because damn it, he can’t help it when he’s looking at her. “You’re welcome.”

She sings more Christmas songs for him that morning. Every time she starts the next one, it’s his new favorite for a little while.

Yeah. Lists or no lists, he’s never, ever getting past her.

 

* * *

 

_**To-do:  
** _

  * ~~_Pay attention to this meeting. Take proper notes for staff newsletter._~~
  * _Ask Sansa for her notes for staff newsletter. Hers are better, anyway._



_**NOT to-do:**  
_

  * _Stare licentiously @ Sansa the whole meeting._
  * _Stare licentiously @ Sansa’s arse when she fetches Stannis’ mid-meeting coffee._
  * _Think abt licking up the seam of Sansa’s stockings as I roll them down her legs._
  * _Think abt ripping off her stockings w/ my teeth bc if I’m honest w/ myself, I’m too impatient to tease her._
  * _(But I rly like that seam up the back of this pair. Are they new? Is there a way to ask her that w/o getting slapped w/ a sexual harrassment suit? WHICH I DESERVE, TBQH.)_
  * _Think abt fucking Sansa while she’s wearing nothing but those kitten heels._
  * ~~_How do I even know what kitten heels are_~~
  * ~~_Why am I like this_~~



Jon has no idea what the meeting’s about. He spends the whole hour of it doing precisely as his ‘not to-do’ list dictates.

This whole compartmentalizing thing has really been falling apart lately. Jon chalks it up to the stress of the holidays, and it probably has something to do with his propensity for staring at Sansa so much. He won’t get over her if he can’t stop looking at her.

 _Well, whatever. I wouldn’t get over her, anyway_ , he admits privately. He takes another moment to appreciate the dip of her blouse, its top two buttons undone and casting a tantalizing — but tasteful, always so damn temptingly tasteful — shadow below her collarbone. _Might as well enjoy myself while I’m at it._

When the meeting — whatever it had been about — concludes, the staff files out, leaving Jon and Sansa behind to tidy up the refreshments. (Not that bad coffee and stale biscuits are particularly refreshing, but the uppers liked to pretend they could be mindful of their employees’ needs. It was the Christmas season, after all.)

Being alone with Sansa does something to Jon. He’s not sure that there’s a name for that something, only that it twists up his insides and makes his face hot and his tongue trip over every word he wants to say — and some words he really shouldn't say.

“I like your tights,” he blurts out, after approximately ninety seconds of acting like a normal human being.

_What? Wait. No._

Sansa lifts an eyebrow, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips, so he must not have mucked it all up too badly. “Thanks. I bought them on sale. A good one, too. I might’ve gone overboard and got four pairs.”

_So I can rip these ones off you, then?_

_Down, boy. That’s already on the not to-do list. Why do you even make a list if you’re just going to chuck it whenever you have a dirty thought about her?_

“That’s, um… resourceful,” Jon decides. He coughs and busies himself with the napkins. “I wouldn’t know much about it, but I imagine you could always use more of those, yeah?”

He’s making small talk about her underwear. That’s… really happening.

He can feel her eyes on him. Out of his periphery he catches her expression, a sort of polite befuddlement, as she replies, “Well they do have a tendency to snag, so I suppose you’re right.”

“That’s good. Not about the snags, I mean,” Jon corrects himself, feeling all the more stupid with every passing second, “but it’s nice to know I can be right every once in awhile.”

She smiles. _Thank god._ And Jon manages to pick up the ‘act like a normal human being around Sansa’ charade for a record eight-and-a-half minutes, give or take, until they’ve finished tidying the conference room. And then —

“Ah. Um.” Sansa gestures to the doorway above their heads. “Mistletoe.”

Jon’s gaze follows the wave of her hand. _Oh, what the fuck?_ That had not been there at the start of the meeting. Jon knows that much, at least, because he’d walked in with Tormund, who absolutely would have laid one on him if there’d been mistletoe in sight. But there hadn’t been, until right this moment.

Kismet? Perhaps. But he suspects Theon.

“Right.” Jon swallows. It’s somehow incredibly painful. “That’s — yeah. Mistletoe.”

He’s definitely having a minor heart attack right now. He’d have Sansa call for an ambulance, but like hell is he about to skip out on this chance.

“I suppose we should…” She lifts a hand, as if to place it on his shoulder, and then draws it back abruptly. “That is, if you don’t mind. It’s bad luck not to, but I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous, you know, it’s just —”

“No, I mean yes —” Jon grasps her retreating hand to keep her where she is. “I mean, we wouldn’t want any bad luck. We’ve got the holiday party next weekend, last thing we need’s another company event disaster.”

Another smile. She’s trying to kill him. “Keep Theon and Tormund away from the karaoke machine this time, then.”

“They really do cause all our problems, don’t they?”

_My uncontrollable lust isn’t doing me any favors, either. Neither is this mad eternal love I’ve been harboring for you. But you don’t need to know about any of that._

Her lips are still twitching. If Jon had any sort of luck at all, he’d think she was nervous — but it’s only a mistletoe kiss. No need for nerves when it’s just superstitious tradition behind it. _Jon_ is nervous, of course, as he’s bloody well in love with her and this is the moment to end all moments, but Sansa…

“Go on, then.” She tilts her chin invitingly, like it’s nothing, as if she offers to fulfill his wildest dreams every day. (He could almost swear there’s a blush on her cheeks, too, but what’s she need to blush for?) “Let’s have a kiss.”

Well, he’s hardly going to say no to that.

They move in sync, with no hesitation to be had between them. There’s no reason to hesitate, they’d agreed to a simple kiss for the sake of holiday spirit, that’s all it is, it’s — it’s —

 _Fuck._ It’s incredible.

Sansa’s lips are soft, warm, pliant, molding to his like they do this every day (oh, he _wishes_ ). She tastes of that morning’s tea, peppermint with a dash of whatever her red lipstick’s made of. It’s his new favorite flavor.

Jon wants to push his hands through her hair; she’s worn it down today, and he wants to feel those glossy, smooth strands of auburn running through his fingers. Somehow, though, he still has enough sense not to push his luck.

Instead, his hand moves to cup the curve of her waist. Her blouse is soft as he strokes his fingers across it, and wonders how much softer the skin beneath it is. A small, barely-audible moan escapes him at the thought, and he kisses her a little bit harder to distract her from the sound.

She clutches more tightly at his shoulder, so that for a moment Jon thinks she means to pull him closer, to keep this going — and, for another moment, she does, and he’s thrust into an endless, dizzying eternity that’s nothing but kissing her.

And what more does he need, really?

Then, just as quickly, she’s pulling back, leaving his lips tingling and a little swollen and wanting more. On instinct, his mouth chases hers with a pathetic little whine he sorely hopes she doesn’t hear.

She clears her throat and adjusts his mussed shirt collar. “Well, um, thanks for that.”

Her smile is brilliant, just another thing to dazzle Jon into speechlessness right now. At this rate, he may never be able to form a coherent sentence again.

 _Sansa kissed me. She mussed up my shirt. She_ thanked me _for kissing her._

Oh, god, his head’s going to explode.

“Uh-huh.” It’s all he can manage.

Sansa seems… pleased by that. She’s still smiling, anyway. She tugs affectionately at one of his curls — _that’s it, I’m going to die, I’m dead_ — and says, “Well, work awaits. Wouldn’t want you falling behind on that to-do list of yours.”

No, indeed. Jon’s got about a dozen things to add to his _not_ to-do now, and no willpower left to take heed of a damn bloody word of it.

 

* * *

 

_**To-do:**  
_

  * _Decorations. **DO NOT delegate this task again. Remember the party hats last New Year’s? They were penises. You cannot trust Theon. It always ends in penis paraphernalia.**_
  * _Cups (NOT plastic, else you’ll listen to Tormund’s tipsy lectures abt environmentalism all night. Also, he’ll make jokes abt your cock that you will not appreciate, & may actually have an adverse effect on your already questionable self-esteem)._
  * _Ice. ~~Maybe extra, so you can take a bath in it, since your obsession w/ Sansa bas reached dizzying new heights and cold showers clearly aren’t helping.~~_
  * _Try some of those breathing exercises Mum told you abt, otherwise you WILL snap @ Thorne in a stress-induced breakdown._
  * _If meditation doesn’t work, just think abt Sansa some more. Your own perversions should distract you from your dick of a supervisor._



_**NOT to-do:**  
_

  * _Ask Sansa what she’s wearing to the holiday party, & please can it be last year’s dress bc… of reasons._
  * _Tell Sansa that I’ve spent the entire year getting myself off to the memory of her in said dress. Also, doing things to her in that dress that would be more convenient if she were naked, but in spite of that the dress is necessary._
  * _Ask Sansa if I can see her out of the dress, too._
  * _Ask Sansa if I can unwrap her like an xmas present. Not only bc it’s sexual harassment, but also bc it’s a terrible line & I’ll look like a fucking idiot._
  * _Dress up like Santa Claus just on the off-chance I can get Sansa to sit on my lap at some point._
  * _Jesus Christ, the fuck’s the matter w/ me???_
  * _First of all, if she sits on my lap I’ll immediately get hard. And she’ll KNOW._
  * _Second of all, what the FUCK is wrong w/ me???_



He’s been thinking about kissing her for six days straight. He can’t stop.

That’s hardly anything new, except now he _has_ kissed her, and that makes all the difference. Now he _knows_ , and he wants — needs, to the point of an obsession he’s never before known exists — to know more. All of it. All of _her_.

She’s been so sweet today. She’s always sweet, of course, but today she’s gone out of her way to do so, because life isn’t fair and Jon is doomed to be in unrequited love with her forever.

She sets a takeaway coffee and paper bag on his desk after lunch. Jon recognizes the label immediately as his preferred shop, Hot Pie’s, which is four streets away and it’s raining something fierce. He looks up to find the evidence of the weather: a sopping-wet Sansa, hair several shades darker thanks to the downpour, lipstick smeared and eye makeup running. She swipes at it with her fingertips and offers him a grin.

“That’s what I get for not going with waterproof.” She shucks off her coat and tosses it over the back of her chair. Despite it, her dress and tights are speckled with raindrops. “Can you believe I couldn’t get a taxi? I mean, I can believe it, it’s dreadful out there, but I’m still well pissed about it.”

Jon’s never heard her speak so irritably before. He finds it oddly sexy — or not so oddly, because he finds everything Sansa does to be alluring in some form or fashion.

“You didn’t have to —”

She waves him off. “Alliser’s a prick.”

Okay, now, that might be the hottest thing Jon’s ever heard. If he wasn’t in love with her already, that would have done the trick, easy.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he says sincerely, so touched by her thoughtfulness that he truly is in danger of tears. It’s been that sort of a day.

She blushes, smiles, and begins to wring out her hair all over the carpet. It makes for a pretty sight, her carelessness of company property making it prettier still, since she’s so put-off with Thorne on Jon’s behalf. Not that Thorne’s responsible for carpet maintenance or anything, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Please, don’t mention it,” she insists. “My sister, Arya, her mate runs the place. Which didn’t make the trip shorter or drier, I’ll grant you that, but it did mean I got to go behind the counter and make everything myself. No disrespect to Hot Pie, of course, but Arya was actually the one working today and you don’t like your coffee half so sweet as she insists on making everything.”

“You know how I take my coffee?” Just because he knows how she takes her tea, Jon hadn’t thought she’d have his coffee memorized, too. He just assumed she’d got it black.

She shoots him a curious look. “Two sugars, one cream, dash of cinnamon. And the beignets, too,” she adds, unfurling the bag. “One of which I’m nicking, but there’s a half-dozen so I reckon you can spare one for me.”

_I’ll give you whatever you want for the rest of forever._

Jon watches, mesmerized, as Sansa sets her pastry to the side and continues to finger-comb her wet hair. He wonders if she does this after a shower, too.

_Stop thinking about her naked! She just did something lovely for you, the least you could do in return is give her a reprieve from your salacious imagination._

“You’re an uncommonly generous person, you know,” Jon tells her. Much better than a likely-crude remark about what she does while she’s wet and naked.

She blushes further, rather furiously this time. “Well, I just figure, everyone’s so rotten this time of year, though we’re all meant to be holly-jolly and all that. And anyway, Alliser has a go at you whenever he can make up a reason to do it, no matter the season, so…”

She pauses. “I don’t really know where I was going with that. You’ve got me all flustered.”

Jon’s heart kicks up. He got her _flustered_. It doesn’t mean anything, surely, but the fact that Sansa is considerate and humble and always so very _‘don’t mention it’_ whenever she does you a kindness.

_Fucking hell, I want to kiss you again. For real this time._

He can’t, though. Bah humbug. So he sips his coffee — perfect, just as the girl who made it — and jots down yet another thing he’s not allowed.

_**NOT to-do:**  
_

  * _Propose to Sansa right this second w/ a beignet in lieu of a ring (just for now, though, before I rush out & buy her the biggest diamond I can find), then make sweet, endless love to her on top of my desk._
  * _Christ, I hate that this is on the not to-do. This list does nothing but mock me._



__

* * *

 

  _ **To-do:**  
_

  * _Hide the fire extinguishers, lest you want a repeat of two-yrs-ago’s drunken fiasco._
  * _Don’t hide the fire extinguishers too well, lest you want a repeat of last year’s drunken fiasco._
  * _????? Remember everything else that needs done._



_**NOT to-do:**  
_

  * _Once again get so distracted by your crazed Sansa obsession that you can’t actually possibly remember everything else that needs done._
  * _TOO LATE, moving on…_
  * _Take five successive shots of tequila & go down on Sansa in the coat closet._
  * ~~_BUT I WANT TO_~~
  * ~~_SO BAD_~~
  * _Crossing that out hasn’t made me want it any less. My coping mechanisms have reached their peak. Nothing can save me now. I will die w/o ever having gotten my face between Sansa’s legs. A true martyr._
  * _Tell Sansa I fancy her. Confess my undying love for her, to her, & hope she *asks me* to go down on her in the coat closet. Or literally anywhere else, idc. That would solve approx. 100% of my problems._



Absolutely Jon will not make it through this holiday party alive.

It’s five o’clock and already in full swing, but Jon’s only stopped for two rum-and-Cokes in between everything else he still needs to do. Just because it’s Christmas doesn’t stop the faxes, the phone calls, and retrieving the karaoke machine’s extension cord, which had been quite literally buried in a potted plant by crotchety old Missus Dustin.

To make matters worse — or better, depending on how you look at it, or maybe it’s just Jon’s lot in life to be mocked by the cold, cruel universe — Sansa showed up in an emerald-green sweater dress, grey suede boots up to her knees, and, as far as he can tell, nothing in-between. Just the hem of her dress and the tops of her boots and the suggestable, precious few inches of bare skin that Jon wants to lick up ‘til he can find out for sure if she’s wearing anything else.

He needs another drink.

“Alright?” Sansa asks, once she’s caught him during a breather. But then she plants a kiss on his cheek and suddenly he’s not breathing anymore. “You look worn out already.”

“I, uh — I never do get through that to-do list of mine, do I?” he tries to joke. A difficult feat, when Sansa’s breath smells of sweet champagne and her lipstick’s on his cheek. Even in the dim light of the room, he can tell her mouth is painted fuschia tonight. He remembers writing something about fuschia on that other list of his.

“You work too hard,” she admonishes him, gently so.

He chuckles, a little forced. “Yeah, well — THEON!” _God damn it._ “Put your shirt back on! Sansa, I’m sorry, I —”

“Duty calls.” She squeezes his hand, a mirthful twinkle in her eye as, behind her, Theon is twirling his ugly Christmas sweater over his head to the beat of the music. “Better you than me.”

His fingers twitch in hers. He’s going to kill Theon, just straight-up strangle his mate with his own discarded sweater for interrupting the one blissful minute Jon’s had all day.

It takes about fifteen less-than-blissful minutes to convince Theon to put his shirt back on, and then two shots of whiskey to convince his friend he’s having a good time and _‘god, no, Theon, I’ll take as many damn shots as you want, do NOT tell Sansa I was just looking at her arse.’_

He’s halfway to hoping that he really won’t survive this holiday party; at least then he could get some rest.

Eventually, Theon is sidetracked by one of the mailroom girls, and Jon manages to steal away without detection. He heads upstairs to the offices, just to get away from it all for a moment, and to double-check his lists and hope there’s nothing left to do. Then he can pound back as many shots as he likes, without worrying about anything except perhaps blurting his feelings to Sansa in a drunken craze.

It turns out that he won’t need to blurt anything, though, Jon discovers. The office door shuts behind him and Sansa, stood over the open notebook on his desk, looks up at the sound.

His brain short-circuits, and she’s the one blurting things now — “You fancy me?”

“Yes. What? Yes. Wait.” Jon panics. No one’s ever asked him this question before. Theon was the only person who knew (or at least the only person who said so), and he hadn’t asked so much as outright accused Jon of it.

So when Sansa looks at him, big blue eyes even bigger in surprise, a pink tinge to her cheeks that’s part strawberry champagne and part… pleasure? Embarrassment? No-holds-back _mortification_? Jon doesn't know. All he knows is that she’s looking at him like… like _that_ , and his primal instinct was to spit out the truth.

Despite whatever she’s feeling, Sansa takes pity on his panic and hastens to explain.

“You’ve been running around like mad all evening. I thought I’d help you out, finish some of this off for you, so I took a peek at your list and, well…” She glances down at his chicken-scratch pages. He wonders which one she’d been reading when he walked in, but then it doesn’t much matter. Maybe he could explain away some of his words ( _ha! Not bloody likely_ ), but there’s no excusing all the little hearts he tends to doodle around her name. “I suppose I saw something, lots of things, you didn’t mean for me to. I’m so sorry.”

She certainly looks embarrassed now. It’s that more than anything that gets Jon talking. _He_ should be embarrassed, not her. He should be contrite and ashamed and profusely apologetic for subjecting her, however inadvertently, to his base thoughts. Sansa means more to him than just some lusty office crush — he hopes she knows that.

“Don’t. Don’t be sorry,” he says, in such a rush to reassure her that he’s not thinking before he speaks. “I should be the one apologizing to you, I — oh, god, Sansa, the things I wrote… I didn’t, I don’t, I, uhm — fuck.”

He runs agitated hands through his hair. He doesn’t know what to say, so he tells her that before he struggles further to find the right words, anything that might express everything that’s been locked up in his chest for so long.

“I don’t even know what to say, except that I’m just a — a filthy degenerate, a grade-A total pervert when it comes to you.” _Okay, way to be honest there, mate._ “And that’s not to say it’s your fault, of course, this is entirely on me, it’s just that I _do_ fancy you, very much, and you’re — you’re so pretty, and sweet and thoughtful and clever, and you make me —”

Jon releases a heavy, wistful sigh, even as he keeps his eyes glued resolutely to bin next to his desk. He doesn’t deserve to look at Sansa and, in truth, he’s a little afraid of what he might find if he does.

“I feel so good when I’m around you, even when I am in a constant state of, of sexual crisis,” he admits, because he’s come this far and besides, she has to know by now. “It’s just that I’m mad about you and I didn’t know how to handle it, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable but I’m sure all those lists did the trick anyway and I, I’m so sorry. I swear that I respect you and I care about you, I just fancy you too much to be a reasonable fucking person about it, apparently, and I —”

His long-winded rant is cut short — shorter than it would have been, anyway — when Sansa crosses the distance between them, and tugs at his tie to bring him close, so she can crush his lips to her own.

This isn’t like their mistletoe kiss, which had been electric but subdued, friendly, with an unspoken but all the same understood boundary. _This_ kiss, though… this is limitless. She’s kissing him because she wants to, and Jon is kissing her back because it’s all he’s ever wanted to do.

Her fingers are twisted in his tie, in his curls, and his hands scramble everywhere, unsure of where they want to touch first — her face, her waist, hips, hair…

Sansa pulls back sooner than he would have liked, but he likes what she has to say, too, breathless as she does: “I would've worn last year’s dress if you’d asked me to.”

“I like this one, too. It’s… cozy.” Truthfully, it makes him want to lay her out in front of a fireplace to fuck her.

Should he tell her that? She seems to have liked everything else he’d thought about doing to her.

Fuck it. He tells her.

She grins. “Well you can see me out of this one if you’d like, because I fancy you _so much_ , too.”

Jon doesn’t know, exactly, what the appropriate response is when all your dreams have come true. He doesn’t know if there’s a correct response, as such, at all. So he says the first thing that comes to mind — a very genuine, grateful _“Thank you,”_ and then he kisses her again.

Tonight she tastes not of tea, but the champagne they’re serving downstairs. Jon’s sure his rum-and-whiskey breath doesn’t taste near as good, but Sansa lets loose a heady, appreciative moan when he slides his tongue between her lips, so he supposes it doesn’t make a difference how he tastes so long as he keeps kissing her like this.

And he intends to.

He walks her backwards towards their desks, lips clinging and hands exploring all the way there.

When the backs of her thighs bump the desk, she bumps a little into him, her body fitting to his and making his cock harden. She must feel it, too, because her hand drops to palm him through his trousers and he bucks into it.

“Eager, are we?” she teases, but her eyes are too dark to pretend she’s not just as much.

No point in denying the fact, so Jon nods, laughing a little because he can’t help it and it’s making Sansa smile.

 _“Mmhm,”_ he hums as he moves his mouth to her neck. She tastes like vanilla there, just as he’d imagined she might all those mornings she’d strolled into the office, smelling sweet and sugary and like something he desperately wanted to taste — and now he gets to.

The thought, the reality of it, has him groaning into her jaw, one hand buried in her hair and the other holding tight to her hip, guiding her movements as she slowly rolls her pelvis against his.

Faintly, he can hear the music from downstairs, can feel it vibrating the floor beneath their feet. But his head’s so full of Sansa that he can’t find the energy to care about the potentially compromising position they’ve put themselves in. The entire office could walk in right now and Jon’s pretty sure he couldn’t be bothered to stop.

Maybe that’s too fast, what’s left of his common sense suggests. He’d only just confessed his feelings, they’d only just kissed, and already he’s about to take her up against their desks. He’s had a few drinks, she’s scoffed a couple flutes of champagne…

He tears his mouth away, reluctantly, but he needs to ask, however short of breath, “Too fast?”

Sansa licks her lips, like she misses the feel of his. She shakes her head. “I wish you would’ve told me ages ago. We’re making up for lost time, as far as I see it.”

That’s music to his ears. He tells her so, but needs to ask her again, anyway, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Thank you for asking, darling man,” she laughs, and frames his face in her hands, “but I’ve never been more sure about anything than I am about you.”

 _God._ He is so unbelievably fucking in love with her.

He doesn’t tell her that yet, though. They’ve got all the time in the world for that.

But when Sansa winks at him, undoes his belt, and slides to the floor, he’s hard-pressed not to recite an entire collection of love sonnets to her then and there.

“You don’t have to,” he starts to say, because he might be a pervert but he’s _polite_ , okay, he’s a multifaceted human being.

Not that any of that matters to Sansa right now. She gives him a playful smack on the arse, making him jump a step and laugh, however nervously, excitably, when she tells him, “Shut up, Jon, I’m doing it.”

And — _holy shit_ — she _does_.

When she licks up his shaft, his hands immediately dive into her hair. Not to push or insist, but to have something to hold onto so he doesn’t collapse when she sucks on him. His thumbs rub slow circles into her head, and he feels her hum vibrate through his cock. His eyes roll back.

“Sansa…” Jon groans, curses. His fingers card through her hair, marvelling at its softness, and the hot insistence of her mouth. He swallows, pants, swallows again, losing his mind with every caress of her tongue, every flex of her hands around his thighs.

It’s not long before he starts babbling nonsense, unsure of what he’s saying, although he does recognize a marriage proposal (which isn’t _nonsense_ , only Jon hadn’t imagined, much less planned, on asking her quite like this. He’s not sure whether the beignet way would have been preferable).

Vaguely, Jon registers the fact that he can’t come like this. He very well _could_ , technically, but if he does he won’t be good for anything for several days, and he’s not going to end this night without getting Sansa off three times, at minimum.

And he really, really wants to kiss her again.

“Up, up, up,” Jon says quickly, urgently, as he drags her back up towards his mouth.

Sansa blinks, a bit startled and a lot confused. “But you didn’t —”

“I will later. Wanna kiss you again. Here first —”

He plucks a short but thorough kiss from her lips, swallowing her surprised little _yelp!_ that turns to a contented sigh when he sweeps his tongue over hers.

“Then…”

His hand snakes down to cup her mound through her dress. She jolts, not having expected that. It makes Jon smirk before he takes his turn and drops to his knees in front of her.

“You don’t have to,” Sansa echoes his words, and seems to realize it since she rolls her eyes a little.

 _Oh, but I want to._ He’ll beg if he has to — he’s not above begging to eat her pussy, no _sir_ — and if it convinces Sansa that he wants this more than he wants to breathe, then all the better.

“You read my list,” Jon reminds her. His hands shove up her sweater dress, stroking the expanse of bare skin he finds beneath. “Let me. Please.”

Her breath catches, she nods, and Jon about loses his damn mind when her hands twist into his hair again. He nuzzles into her hand, then into the crook of her knee, nudging her back until she has to sit atop his desk to accommodate him.

Slowly, he explores her inner thighs with lips and teeth and tongue and bursts of hot breath. He moves his hands in long, slow strokes, sweeping and caressing and moving her dress out of the way, _up up up_ , until…

Red satin, adorned with a little scarlet bow and two tiny gold jingle bells. He swallows again.

“Festive,” he remarks, making Sansa half-shout with laughter. He flicks one of the bells before inching the panties down her legs, then shoves them in his back pocket. Those must be inconvenient to wash; Jon will be doing her a favor by never returning them.

“Jon…” Her breath hitches again, her thighs twitch beneath his hands, her fingers tug at his curls.

He glances up to look at her pink face, dark eyes, smeared lipstick. He likes her just like this; he wants to watch it all come apart.

“Yes, love?” he prompts, and flattens his tongue against and up her cunt. She doesn’t taste like vanilla here — no, she tastes headier, hotter, like musk and spice and _Sansa_. He groans and presses a hand to his aching cock. “Oh, fuck…”

Jon doesn’t try to prompt her again, doesn’t try to tease her. He’d overestimated his own self-control; he’d been a fool to think he could sustain any willpower the first time he went down on her.

Maybe next time, or the time after that, he thinks, and opens his mouth to taste as much of her as he can.

She’s delectable, sweet, so good that it’s a wonder he doesn’t just come in his pants as he flicks his tongue over her clit. She arches and gasps his name, grip tightening in his hair and making him groan in turn.

“Fuck, Sansa.” Jon comes up for a moment of air, so he can encourage her towards her peak. His fingers take over as he plants hot kisses across her mound. His voice is hoarse, rough. “You’re so pretty, I bet you’re pretty when you come, too. Let me see it, sweetheart. Let me make you come.”

His mouth is back on her then, hands moving to the backs of her knees, to get her legs up, until he sucks on her clit and then her thighs are clamping over his ears. He tastes her release, hears the sharp cry of his name from Sansa’s kiss-swollen, still faintly fuschia lips. Jon helps her to ride the aftershocks, lapping at her like he can’t get enough — and he can’t, really — and rubbing her legs as they shudder and shake.

He brings her to another peak, just like that. _Two down, one to go._

When she comes down, all he wants is to kiss her more. It’s too bad they’re not under the mistletoe again, because Jon’s pretty sure they’ve kissed enough for a lifetime of good luck.

But then, he doesn’t need the mistletoe when Sansa wants him the same way he wants her. He doesn’t know if that’s luck or fate or what; all he knows is that it’s the best Christmas gift he’s ever gotten.

He slips his hands over and then around hers, to pull her up into a sitting position, and kisses her deeply with the taste of her cunt still on his tongue.

What begins as a leisurely kiss morphs into an urgent, hungry one as it continues, with every press of lips and tongue and nip of teeth. Jon swallows every breath, every sigh, and he gives back in reverent whispers of her name.

Christ, but he can’t believe this is happening. He laughs into the kiss, quiet, and when he feels Sansa’s lips curve into a smile he kisses her harder.

“I want you,” he murmurs, as his hands ruck up her dress to cup her breasts. She moans and so does he. “Sansa —”

She yanks on his loosened waistband, bringing him firmly between her legs. “Here?” A sly grin crosses her face. “Or did you want to try the copy room?”

Now her legs are wrapping around his hips. He grunts, scrambling for his pocket — Theon had given him a condom earlier as a joke, Jon thought at the time, but now Sansa’s parting her lips up and down his neck and there’s nothing funny about it.

“No time.” He finds the condom — thank god — and rips it open.

Sansa pops the buttons on his shirt, giggling at him as she says, “Jon, it’s just right down the hall —”

“Too far,” he asserts before shooting her a wicked grin. “Next time, though.”

 _Next time._ There’s going to be a next time. A thousand next times. The rest of their lives of next times.

Right now, though, there’s a first time. Jon’s going to love Sansa right here on his desk. It’s not rose petals on a feather bed, but then Jon thinks this is a damn fine alternative. Hell, he could have her the first time in a broken-door bathroom stall and he’d call that a damn fine alternative, too.

Maybe this is best, anyway. He’s spent so much time staring at her across their desks when he should have been working, that it probably should happen here.

And when he enters her in a hard, fast thrust — _“Fuck oooh my fucking god”_ — Sansa nips, sucks his bottom lip and Jon thinks the feather bed can go fuck itself, he doesn’t need it. He just needs her.

She’s hot and wet and tight around him. Her fingernails bite into his shoulders, holding fast to him as he moves inside of her. The desk rattles in time with his thrusts and the buck of her hips to meet him.

For all that he’d fantasized, never could he have known she’d be this good.

Jon’s busy sucking on her neck when she tugs at his hair to get his attention. He whines at the loss of contact, but recovers quickly when she says, “Switch?”

It takes some awkward maneuvering — Jon, in his haste to get Sansa on top of him, trips over his trousers before he kicks the things all the way off — but then, somehow without any grave injury, she’s straddling his lap and sinking back down onto his cock.

It’s hot and fast, so fast that Jon worries this will be over before he can really savor the fact that it’s happening in the first place. He can’t have that, now, can he? So he grasps Sansa’s hips under the dress she’s still wearing to  
decrease her pace.

“Slow,” he gasps, throat dry, voice low. “Slow, baby, I don’t want this over yet.”

Sansa rocks slowly as commanded, but so sensuously that Jon’s in danger of coming apart, regardless of speed. She pushes her hands through his hair, kneading his scalp, massaging his curls with an expert caress that gets him moaning and fucking her faster.

“You haven’t come yet,” she points out, as if he needs it. She trails her mouth along the underside of his jaw. “I want to make you come, too.”

She’s definitely trying to kill him. Jon’s suspected it nearly since they day they’d met. She can’t just… _be the way she is_ and expect him to survive it.

“You first.” He moves his hand to her clit as he continues to pound into her, his desire for languid loving forgotten in favor of something more relentless. They’ll have time for languid later.

“But I already —” she breaks off on the sweetest of sighs when his thumb presses and his cock strokes, all in the right spot at just the right moment.

“I know,” he whispers against her skin. “I know you did, but I want it one more time, love.”

Sansa catches his wandering mouth with hers, and kisses him so hard Jon thinks he might go cross-eyed from it.

He smacks the desktop with his free, open palm, desperate for purchase, for something to ground him so he doesn’t come before she does. His pencil cup clatters when it falls sidewise, pens and loose caps and paperclips sent scattering. It’s all white nose, though, to the things Sansa’s murmuring into his ear.

It’s something like a Christmas miracle that he hasn’t come already.

Jon’s thrusts are becoming more erratic, and Sansa’s hips are losing rhythm, and his hand is working her furiously to get her to cry out his name again so he can let go and shout hers, too, and he takes her mouth in another hard, sloppy, _I-want-you kiss_ , and —

_Oh, thank god, yes, finally._

She comes for the third time and he follows along with her, catching their own names in their mouths while their bodies tighten, spark, and go deliciously boneless against one another.

Almost two years of imagining it, and Jon still wasn’t prepared enough to catch his breath now. He’s panting as he pushes Sansa’s hair back from her face, so he can press a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and holds him so close that he can feel her steadying heartbeat skipping with his.

“I’m well-shot of this party,” she tells him, once they’ve settled enough to string a few words together. She lifts her head to look at him, both of them pink-faced and disheveled. “Anything else on those lists of yours need doing?”

Jon grins. “I don’t know how far back you managed to read, but my very first not to-do list involved taking you back to mine so I could have you on every flat surface in the place.”

“Sounds promising.” Her hands dance down his chest, making his heart skitter anew. “And how many flat surfaces have you got?”

“Ah —” Jon pretends to think on it, as if he hasn’t been doing just that for ages as it is “— well, there’s a very sturdy kitchen table, and loads of walls on the way to my bedroom, for starters.”

“Well, then…” Sansa removes herself from his lap, far more gracefully than anyone who’s just been soundly fucked has a right to. But then Jon supposes that’s just another thing that makes him mad about her.

She adjusts her dress, her boots, and tosses him a grin as she twists her tousled hair into a braid — god, even that’s making him hot all over again — and continues, “We’ve got two years’ worth of lists to make up, so what are we waiting for?”

Quickly, Jon disposes of the condom and yanks his trousers back up. He kicks his pencil cup across the floor when he moves to take Sansa around the waist, so he can press his lips to her cheek. And he tells her, “Nothing, love. No need to wait on me anymore, ever again.”

The sounds of Christmas tunes are still floating up the stairs, but it’s nothing half so musical as Sansa’s contented laughter.

 

* * *

 

Jon’s lists don’t look quite the same after that.

_**NOT to-do:**  
_

  * _Thank Theon for that condom he tossed right in my face @ the holiday party. It’s the Right Thing To Do, but it’s not worth that smarmy look of his._
  * _Use your own key card for the copy room when you & Sansa… make use of it… Stannis is already side-eyeing you whenever you have sex hair after lunch. HE KNOWS!!!! Make another one. Use your stupid birth name if you have to; it’s not identity fraud if it’s still technically you. (Probably. Maybe ask Sam abt the law before you possibly break it.)_
  * _Return any of Sansa’s underwear. I know she was complaining the other day that I’ve taken so many pairs hostage, but those are mine now. Just buy her new ones._
  * _Let on that you’ve started looking at engagement rings. Though she probably knows, since you not-so-subtly asked for her ring size the other day. Idiot._



_**To-do:**  
_

  * _Probably some things for work, idk, not important._
  * _Re-stock the kitchen w/ candy cane hot chocolate for Sansa before the seasonal sale ends._
  * _Also. Love this woman madly, every goddamn day of my life._



Though, really, he doesn’t need to write that last bit down to remember it. But it makes Sansa smile and laugh and throw her arms around him, so that she can kiss him dizzy and murmur against his lips, _I love you, too_.

And then she keeps kissing him, and he lifts her off her feet to carry her off to his bed, where he’ll keep her all weekend. Much more comfortable than anywhere they might sneak off to at the office.

So, in the end, it’s worth the paper.


End file.
